


Bless me, padre, for I will sin

by br1_an



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Catholic AU, Catholic Character, Catholicism, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Drama, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-03 23:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13352061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/br1_an/pseuds/br1_an
Summary: "You see, to fuck the priest is not a shocking news these days. All your bishops and cardinals are ready to jump to anyone into the bed, just show them a sweet ass. Nobody will be surprised if I seduce the priest who is glad to break his celibacy. But to fuck a good and faithful servant of the church is intriguing and interesting, it is not boring. And this is what I plan to do with you,padre... To seduce. To bite the innocent fruit, what do you think?"Catholic AU in which Sherlock is a priest and Moriarty tries to seduce him.





	1. Sunday

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Благословите, падре, ведь я согрешу](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12964860) by [br1_an](https://archiveofourown.org/users/br1_an/pseuds/br1_an). 



> It is a translation of my own fic that I wrote last year. It is around 12 000 word in Russian and I am planning to translate it by the end of this winter.
> 
> English is not my native language, so you may see some mistakes. Please, don't hesitate to write me about this. I also would be very happy if anyone could be my beta (unfortunately, I don't have English native speakers friends who like sheriarty).
> 
> It is also my first try to translate (and write fiction) in English, but I am just so in love with this language and culture that I decide to do this. 
> 
> Enjoy! ;)

### Sunday

Sherlock hated shrift. The darkness untied tongues of the righteous, the church promised to forgive the sinners. He had to humbly listen to both twenty-four hours a week.

"Father, I have so cool job. Well, I know that it is bad to show off like that... But these contracts that I have signed..."

"The Reverend, I have sinned. This gorgeous blond from _Tinder_ made me crazy and... Well, yes, I've cheated my wife... Yes, twice. But, damn it, Father, if you see her, you will also forget all your holy vows."

"I hate this bitch from the 5th floor! She ruined my life, my career, and... You know, I found a gun and planned everything... No-no, I didn't kill her, but I dreamt about this and... Please, Father, forgive me all my sinful thoughts."

Because of their mumbling head was sick and the faith in salvation was tested. Also, the butt hurt because of the narrow bench on which Sherlock was sitting for several hours in a row. 

God damn you, Mycroft, His very Grand and Pompous Eminence, with the idea to include the practice of the sacrament of penance and reconciliation in the duties of the Cardinal Archivist, so that he would not forget about his faith and his Christ's flock.

It is time to reread old papal bulls. Find a sophisticated quote that prohibits such arbitrariness. And enjoy the expression on the brother's face while reading the quote at the next consistory.  
Maybe, it will become also possible to cancel a couple of other stupid duties in order to spend more time on the true (in Sherlock's opinion) service to God: developing those proofs of His existence that Anselm of Canterbury and Kant discovered in the past and, of course, investigating the secret documents of the Holy See.

These thoughts were amused and reconciled. He did not want to stop dreaming because reality was cruel and sinful. There the Reverend Holmes sat in the thin dark confessional and listened to the broken endless record "forgive me, Father, for I have sinned". 

"I am bored..."

"Life is boring," said Sherlock but immediately bit his tongue.

With such words the proper Christian does not start his shrift, so... God, please, let it be not another tourist who decided to talk about the sense of life when he had seen St. Peter's Cathedral and had suddenly remembered that he had a soul.

"So it is a hint that it's time to go to the Kingdom of God?" was a playful answer. 

Irishman understood Sherlock. By his accent, he was definitely Irishman who had tired from pizza and identical excursions around Rome. Such kind was even worse than all these sinners seeking forgiveness.  
But he knew how to talk to them.

"Well, let's start from the beginning," Sherlock indifferently corrected himself. "I am ready to listen and let go of your sins." 

"But why do you decide, _padre,_ that I came for this?"

 _Because, damn it, everyone wants be stroked on the head and promised that God will forgive all the shit that you do every day._ Oh, how much Sherlock wanted to say this! 

But he replied like a good Catholic priest, "Then why do you come?"

"Because I want to seduce you, _pa-a-adre_." 

The holy rosary felt from his hands. They hit the floor and rolled in different directions.

In another right story, good Sherlock, of course, stopped all this vulgarization immediately and scolded the insolent person who decided to mock so sordidly about the sacraments of the church. After he simply forgot about it like soon you forgot about the nagging seller.  
But in this story, he did not do anything and just swallowed a lump in his throat.

The stranger encouraged by his silent confusion continued, "You see, to fuck the priest is not a shocking news these days. All your bishops and cardinals are ready to jump to anyone into the bed, just show them a sweet ass. Nobody will be surprised if I seduce the priest who is glad to break his celibacy. But to fuck a good and faithful servant of the church is intriguing and interesting, it is not boring. And this is what I plan to do with you, _padre_... To seduce. To bite the innocent fruit, what do you think?"

 _Holy Spirit, remove carnal desires and impurities from our hearts. Holy Spirit, incline our hearts towards Christ and toward those things that are from above._  
Holy Spirit, just answer: is it a joke? A provocation? Is someone from enemies foolishly testing his faith?

"Lust is a mortal sin and everyone who..."

But Sherlock was rudely interrupted, "I do not need your preaching, _padre_." 

Why does this usual, so common for Italy _padre_ sound so saucily from this Irishman?

"I will seduce you by the next Sunday. Only for one week."

Sherlock wanted to laugh at this overconfidence.

"I will never refuse the sacred vows given to the Holy Church."

"Let's see what will happen next Sunday, the Reverend Sherlock Holmes."

And when Sherlock took air into the lungs for finally pronouncing the angry tirade about sins, excommunication from the church and the concept of the holiness, he heard that the stranger hastily left the confessional without giving him the possibility to demonstrate his undeniable faith and unshakable love for God, Christ, and the Virgin Mary.

Sherlock jumped out from the confessional after him. The crowd of tourists immediately stared at him like he was an uncanny animal in the zoo. Someone even pointed a finger at him. The cameras clicked. 

_God, please, give us a patience,_ and better get rid of all the idiots, which you send us according to your plan.


	2. Monday

### Monday

Italian summer was hot and sleepy. A hard collar was rubbing the skin on the nape and the black cassock has turned into the devil's sophisticated instrument. Only when Sherlock was rolling up the sleeves till elbows, he felt a little bit of relief. But by doing this he broke some rules, of course. Mycroft always condemned and rebuked him for that. Such a pain.

But no, Sherlock would not stop doing this. And no, he would not test his patience and show the miracles of humility like their Savior on the cross. He has been practicing all these virtues every day since the brothers Holmes moved to Rome several years ago as soon as Mycroft had become cardinal. 

That is why in that day he had not also straightened out his cassock's sleeves right before he opened the door to the cabinet of the Cardinal Secretary of State without knocking. The Vatican is already soaked with lies, hypocrisy and observance of rules written by sinful people. Why else should he follow them? 

"Sherlock, brother mine, I am glad that you came."  
This fake smile on the Mycroft's lips, the unctuous tone and also the quickness he was at the door of his office could mean only one thing: he was buttering up some big political figure or a rich sponsor or both. Never mind, all of them at the end of the life started to worry about their souls and decided to buy a place in a heaven. _Oh, dear, but the Catholic Church always has the highest prices._

"I asked for you because I want to introduce you to my guest from Cambridge. Next few days he will be the frequent visitor of your precious Vatican Secret Archives".

As Sherlock told. _So predictable, Mycroft_.

He saw a dark-haired middle-aged man in blue jeans and a plain black T-shirt in the corner of the cabinet near the bookshelves. He did not look like usual cardinal's guests. 

Another promising researcher who did not have a penny for his soul but won a big Cambridge grant? Young genius professor? Nobel laureate? But if this were so, he could simply write to the prefect of the Archives and easily obtain the allowance to research here for any period he wishes. In recent years the Vatican has rarely denied scholars the access to the library. At least to the allowed part of it.

"I hope you will pay _special_ attention to him," the brother added quietly and smiled when the guest finally turned to them.

Well, then maybe he was a young billionaire who made his wealth on these new-fashioned Internet startups and for some reasons started to be interested in science and religion? But then why leave all your money to the church at this age? Worries about the soul? A deadly disease? Broken heart?

"The Reverend Sherlock Holmes, the most youngest Cardinal Archivists of the Vatican Secret Archives," this deep velvety voice of the guest sounded so familiar.

The heart stopped for a few seconds.  
This was him without any doubt. His yesterday's Irishman from the shrift. 

"Pleased to meet you, finally," the guest reached out for a handshake.  
Sherlock froze in his place scrutinizing the beautiful face right before him and trying to see at least some hint. 

_Come on, give yourself away, I already guessed everything!_

However, brown, almost black, big eyes looked at him with admiration and servility like people usually look at the servants of the church. A slight barely noticed smile played on his narrow moist lips.

"Sherlock, this is professor James Moriarty," broke the awkward pause Mycroft. 

"Oh, please, just Jim. I don't like all these formalities," he removed his hand which Sherlock did not shake.

What did he want? What did he plan? But maybe it is a weird way that his brother invented in order to check his faith and devotion to the church?

"But you should be proud of your rank, especially in this young age," Mycroft's voice was so honey that you could feed all hungry.

"I could say the same about you, your Eminence."

Mycroft, this a narcissistic turkeycock in a purple cassock, hid a smile in his fist and delicately cleared his throat finishing the exchange of courtesies.

"Well, brother mine, James is a mathematician and he needs to research some manuscripts. Elements by Euclid, Latin translations of Archimedes, right?.. I'm not an expert, but I know you will help," said Mycroft with the smile.  
This was so about him: just like this between the lines to remind Sherlock of his old sins when he skipped theology and church history at the university and once even was seriously thinking to switch to chemistry. 

The Irishman looked at him inquisitively. And this devil mostly unnoticeable smile was continuing to play on his lips. Oh, Lord.

"I will help him. That's all? I have a lot of stuff to do," Sherlock did not like this situation.

"That's all. But before you come back to your dearest Archives, take a walk with our guest in the Vatican Gardens for at least half an hour. You can not do a lot of work during this time but you can enjoy the wonderful view and this nice sunny weather," smiled Mycroft.  
Sherlock reminded himself of the meekness and humility and also the Lord's suffering on the cross and that everyone will be repaid according to what he has done.  
But, damn it, the brother perfectly knew how he hates this Italian hot summer!

"No need in that, your Eminence, I do not want to bother you and your brother..."

Oh, God, this was so theatrically. Fake. 

"It will be a pleasure for my brother."

Sherlock was sick of it.

"We will take a walk," interrupted he this play of the hypocrisy and quickly went to the exit without paying attention to the Irishman. He hoped that when they were left alone he would be able to see all sinful thoughts of this Judas.

#### ***

The wind was tickling the sweaty nape and brought the sweet smell of bright red flowers the name of that Sherlock always forgot. Sun was teasing the naked hand's skin and blinding the eyes. Sherlock unwittingly envied this professor walking around in his light jeans, T-shirt, and trendy sunglasses. 

Everywhere was quiet. All tours showing Vatican Gardens for the lucky ones who reserved their places in advance have ended before noon. Thus, only Sherlock and his strange companion were walking here in the hottest time. 

They were silent. Sherlock hated all these small talks but wanted so much to figure out what this lunatic Irishman had in his mind and why he organized this weird shrift on Sunday.  
So, when they stopped near the fountain looking like a grotto on top of which a marble stately eagle sat, Sherlock coldly noticed, "I have never been a tour guide in the Vatican Gardens, so I will not tell anything."

However, his companion was not disappointed. 

"I have read a lot and I know that this is _Fontana dell'Aquilone_ 1," he replied and continued to look around with the pleased face stopping from time to time and taking pictures on the phone. This makes Sherlock angry, he had to wait for him. 

_'What the hell?'_ stuck in his head and mouth but Sherlock must be silently suffering this execution wiping sweat from his forehead and squinting because of the bright sun.

Meanwhile, the professor was completely fascinated in observation of the beauty around showed no interest in Sherlock. Sometimes he smiled widely at his thoughts and stopped near the pine, palm tree or another rare plant (was he really interested in them?) to take pictures. It seemed that if Sherlock had left, he would not have even noticed his absence... 

"Picture me, _padre_."

Because of the phrase and this such familiar _'padre'_ Sherlock felt as if someone overturned a bucket of ice water on his head. Moriarty weirdly smiled and started to gaze him, his dress and especially naked elbows. 

Sherlock slowly put his new smooth prayers into the pocket. Trying not to pay a lot of attention to this gaze he carefully took the phone from his hands not touching Moriarty's fingers. He quickly pressed the screen button without even looking at the pictures that he made and returned the smartphone to his owner as if he was afraid of something. As if this phone could provoke him, make him sinful. 

"Thank you," sincerely thanked Moriarty and began to browse photos completely concentrating on himself again.  
Even in the way he pushed his glasses up his nose and fix his hair he admired himself. It was attracting, it made completely impossible to look away. Sin and righteousness coexisted in him in a very bizarre way replacing each other like the faces of the ancient Roman god Janus.

"It is almost three," not very politely reminded Sherlock tired from this hot sun. The walk was clearly a bad idea. 

"Oh, really? I wanted to start reading the first Euclid's book... Then let's go to the Archives, _padre_ ," said Moriarty as if he had been forced to suffer this tour. He walked ahead in the right direction putting his hands in the jeans pockets. Sherlock only had to hurry after him. 

_Oh God, your ways are inscrutable, but I pray: give me the strength to withstand this devil._

#### ***

The home smelled of a burnt lasagna.  
And how could John remain this big fan of Italian cuisine after all years living in this country? It is easier to take a taxi and in a quarter of an hour to choose a restaurant for every taste and budget in Trastevere, a cozy district on the right bank of the Tiber. Lost in the narrow streets away from all these tourists that fill Rome at any time of day and night.

"You again overdid the lasagna in the oven," instead of greeting said Sherlock and sat down wearily in his chair in the living room.

"And you again visited Mycroft," smiled John who was in an indecently happy mood. He sat in an opposite chair and began his dinner with an appetite not paying a lot of attention to the somber mood of his neighbor.

Well, maybe because of that they were so perfect flatmates. Two opposites: closed, always lost in thought Sherlock and kind-hearted charming John, the current director of the Vatican pharmacy, a Fatebenefratelli monk whose order was always famous for excessive care for the sick and needy. Or maybe John just thought that Sherlock did not have enough care and, thus, endured his bad mood?

"Yes, I visited him," admitted Sherlock and for some reasons which he even did not know added. "He is busy with some professor of Mathematics from Cambridge and also forced me to help him."

"Well. This is not a big surprise. If he is a professor, then he researches something in your Archives, right?" John gave the banalest assumption as best he could. If Sherlock had not been so interested in Moriarty in that moment, he would have doubted his intellectual abilities. But this was not so unusual.

"Yes, he researches Euclid," quickly added he folding hands and touching his mouth. A prayer gesture which actually was peculiar to Sherlock in those moments when he was thinking. "But you know that it is rare for a professor to get such honors as a visit to the Cardinal Secretary of State. Especially because he did not make any outstanding discovery, I googled this. He is just a boring typical professor from Cambridge, we have dozens of them here, in Archives... But, of course, he also started his own business a few years ago, got rich, but that's it. I can't find any details about him and now he wants to leave all his inheritance to the church. But why at such a young age? Disease? Broken heart? Disappointment in life? Impressed by some books or movies?"

"Stop this, Sherlock, it does not matter at all," John interrupted his thinking. He was washing dishes in the kitchen. It seems that Sherlock was so fascinated by thoughts about Moriarty that even did not notice when John finished his dinner. "This is a very intimate matter that does not concern you and you perfectly knows that. Just give personally those books that he asks. Why are you so nervous around him?"

John was standing in the doorway wiping plates and looking sympathetically at Sherlock.  
His figure in the blue calmed down. Well, look, everything is good. Everything is the same. New week, old worries. Just do as usual.  
Do not think, do not live.

The scooter drove past the windows of their rented apartment and their neighbors began to swear loudly in Italian figuring out who spent the last hundred euros on the bank card. Sherlock was reflecting.  
Should he tell John about Sunday's confession?  
But he will advise not to give it so much attention to this joke. "Pray more. If the devil really wanted to tempt you, he would first get into your thoughts. God is always with us, Sherlock," he would probably say. 

But is God still with us? Maybe he got tired of this hot weather in Rome and these noisy sinful people and took a vacation? Went to the Scandinavian countries, dressed a sweater and was drinking hot tea admiring the beauty of the fjords? And we were just so busy that even did not notice that St. Peter's Cathedral became so empty?

"I am tired. You know, I hate summer," Sherlock finished this conversation and went to his bedroom feeling John's brooding look on him. Or was he just imagining it?  
Lord, why did this professor so tightly sit in his head?

1The Fountain of the Eagle (Italian)


	3. Tuesday

### Tuesday

At the morning mass thoughts crumbled like torn rosary beads. Sherlock felt neither usual spirituality nor at least insignificant satisfaction. Only a sticky worry, because of which palms were sweating.  
It was a difficult morning. 

The archives were stuffy. Idiot Anderson mixed up papers again, so Sherlock had to deal with a lot of work. Moriarty did not pay any attention to him. 

Professor grudgingly thanked for the books and did not notice that Sherlock himself brought them to him and even tried to initiate a conversation about the math with him.

"Well, I would like to chat with you, _padre_ , but I have to research," he said returning to his books and quickly typing on the laptop.

Usually, Sherlock did the same, so he first did not find what to say. He hurriedly left away and spent the rest of the day blaming himself for this incident and doubting his own logical abilities. Maybe, he was wrong? The professor and that Irishman from the shrift are two different people?

In the evening, Sherlock visited the Vatican pharmacy hoping to have dinner with John at a restaurant nearby. After the whole day full of reflections he decided to tell his friend this weird story that happened on Sunday but, as if on purpose, John was no longer there. As Sherlock found out, he had left a quarter of an hour ago.

Frustrated, Sherlock came to their empty flat but nothing brought him peace. He tried to read the Bible, but words escaped him. He wanted to take a nap, but God did not give him such grace, so he was thrashing around the apartment trying to find himself what to do. Sherlock was so angry that if he had a gun, he would have liked to shoot on the walls.

_Lord, why don't you give me peace and humility? Why do you test me?_

Around eight he heard laughter and voices in the hall.   
Did John come back with someone? Sherlock tightened the belt of a silk robe which he put over his clothes and looked out of the living room.

John did come with someone. Mycroft was sharing some apparently very funny story. They both barely held back the laughter and stuck in the corridor ignoring Sherlock. They smelled of expensive cigarettes.  
Tuesday was getting worse.

"Wrong flat, Mycroft?" sarcastically noticed Sherlock leaning on the door jamb and feeling like a wife that meets an unlucky husband after a drinking party.  
So stupid comparison!

"Not at all. I came to please you, Sherlock," he broadly disgustingly smiled and John covered his mouth with the fist trying not to laugh.  
The elder Holmes slowly came into the living room and occupied as usual Sherlock's chair. He crossed his fingers on his umbrella that he always carried with him, even in Rome. It was a silly habit after rainy England.

"How? Did the pope issue a decree permitting smoking in the Vatican?" Sherlock asked incredulously and looked from Mycroft to John trying to guess where they spent this evening and what good (or not) news they brought.

He knew one thing: John would never smoke and Mycroft did it only in moments of despair and self-pity. Now he was indecently happy for that.

"You're going on a cruise tomorrow," Mycroft said ignoring his question.

"Funny."

"It is not a joke, Sherlock," John interrupted the conversation always trying to soften their relations. He came cautiously into the living room but did not sit down apparently decided to support Sherlock. "We had dinner with Jim today, and he urges you to join him on a two-day cruise from Civitavecchia."

With Jim? Had dinner? Cruise?

"I am not going."

"Don't be a child. You are going," Mycroft rubbed his nasal bridge and inspected the room with the usual displeased look. He still could not understand why Sherlock had rejected the posh apartment found by his loving elder brother and was sharing _this one_ with John whom hardly knew at that time. "Pack up. Francesco will take you to Civitavecchia tomorrow morning. You'll be back on Thursday evening just before the mass. Your favorite Archives will survive and be under my personal supervision, I promise."

Sherlock wanted to tear and throw. Loudly scream, overturn furniture and prove his rightness. He wanted to curse the stupid institutions of the church and the papacy. In general, to behave not in a Christian way.  
 _And why did you teach to turn the other cheek, God?_

"What Moriarty promised you?" Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.

Mycroft falsely smiled and looked at John showing that this conversation is certainly not intended for an extra pair of ears.

"I trust John, you perfectly know that. Answer me, brother."

"Sherlock, it's not about who you trust because the Church..."

"A few thousand pounds?"

"Sherlock..."

"The hundreds?"

"Sherlock!"

"A million or a couple of million? Even more? And you did not think how such a young professor from Cambridge could earn this money? Or the Catholic Church does not care?"

"Stop this!" Mycroft raised his voice. He was unable to stand this conversation any longer. Red spots appeared on his face, he was noisy breathing and clung his umbrella with all his strength.  
Oh, how Sherlock liked to make mad an eternally cold and reserved brother.

"Donations are a personal affair that only concerns our Holy Catholic Church and its benefactor, and you know this very well." Mycroft quickly regained control of himself. "Yes, it is a big sum that will help us a lot, but our relationships with James are not so mercantile. We made a vow to help the suffering people, to give the advice to those who ask..."

"Oh, please, we are not at the church. I am so tired of all this shit."

Mycroft grimaced wryly when he heard this and rose from the chair heading for the exit.

"Well, if you know all this perfectly, then tomorrow after the morning prays go to Civitavecchia, smile and behave as a proper priest. Discuss with James God, Holy Church or even his favorite math, I do not care. I do not understand why he wants to see exactly you, but if this happened, then just fulfill this little whim. The Church will figure out how to thank you."

"I am not interested."

Instead of answering, Mycroft just sighed wearily, looked sympathetically at John, as if asking to somehow influence Sherlock during this evening.

"See you on Thursday, brother mine."


End file.
